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Cohn

Mindsurfing Suteki in their jet-and-neon simulator suits, Eamon and Cohn lean into the synaptic wind and plunge down toward the root of his hippocampus.

“If he ever knew it, it’s here,” crackles Eamon over the comm.

“Damn well better be!” says Cohn. “We’ve looked everywhere, and the multiplier’s dying!” Over his shoulder, a power pack blinks orange.

Eamon soft-lands on the obsidian vault, an abstract of Suteki’s deepest secrets. Cohn fires up the torch. They heave away a glowing-edged disc, and within–

“This is a Post-It,” says Eamon slowly.

“In email (?!)” says the note.

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